


Just One Thing I Need

by Em_Jaye



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Don't Judge Me, F/M, Gen, Mariah Carey is a genius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 07:26:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8881324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Em_Jaye/pseuds/Em_Jaye
Summary: There are a few things Darcy knows for sure: That Mariah Carey recorded the greatest Christmas song ever, that the sound of Steve's laugh is her favorite, and that she'd rather be dead than anyone find out what she's hiding under her bed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is adapted from another fanfic I wrote a million years ago, long before I was sailing aboard the SS Marvel. Seeing all of the lovely holiday fics floating around made me wish I'd signed up for the gift exchange. Oh well. There's always next year. Hope you like this bit of silliness.

                _His mouth found hers then in a hungry bittersweet fervor.  His tongue slipped between her swollen, supple lips, absorbing her intoxicating nectar.  She moaned against his mouth as his hands moved under her blouse and over her soft, curving skin.  Impatient, she grabbed his hands and moved them up to experience her burgeoning, throbbing breasts—_

_BEEP!_

The book flew out of her hands as the microwave began to beep, signaling her tea was finished reheating.  She rolled her eyes at her own reaction and set her feet on the ground.  Standing up, she locked eyes with Mr. Fluffikins, her twenty-two pound Maine Coon, and pointed a finger at him.  “Not a word,” she warned.

Darcy Lewis had a secret.  A really awful, stupid, traumatizing-to-even-consider-anyone-ever-finding-out secret. 

                It wasn’t so bad, really, living with this burden.  Most of the time, she didn’t even think about it.  She went about her day without any issues.  She went to work, she fetched and carried for Jane and her band of merry scientists; she went to lunch with Jemma and Sam and Steve if they were all in town; she went home and danced around her Stark-provided apartment while singing showtunes to Mr. Fluffikins and she went to bed, not having spared a thought to the suitcase that lived beneath her bed.

                That suitcase housed her deep, dark secret.  A home for the shameful reminder of the two hundred and sixteen times in her life when she’d been too weak to resist. Too headstrong to talk herself out of it. Too far gone to find something else to spend her money on. Two hundred and sixteen.

                Darcy Lewis had two hundred and sixteen romance novels stashed away inside that suitcase.  She was not proud of this collection. She didn’t talk about it with anyone. She prided herself on the fact that there wasn’t a person on the planet who even knew she had them.

                But she did have them.  She had two hundred and sixteen of them.  Because Darcy Lewis was _addicted_ to poorly-written, trashy romance novels.

                This wasn’t even _50 Shades_ territory.  This was bargain bin, bodice-ripping, bosom-heaving trash written by women with names like Felicity Heatherton and Julia Deveraux.  Books from publishing houses that were still relying on illustrations of Fabio to sell their seedy garbage.

                It had started out innocently enough.  The summer she turned ten years old, she’d stumbled upon one of her mother’s fat paperbacks, thick with rereads and dogeared pages.  The cover had drawn her in—a buxom woman clinging to a musclebound man who appeared to be tied to the mast of a ship.  The book ( _Piracy of the Heart_ by Aurelia Snow) was Darcy’s first foray into the world of tawdry romantic fiction.

                She’d learned the suitcase trick from her mother.  On long, sticky summer afternoons in Connecticut she’d sneak one book at a time out of the case under her parents’ bed and slink up to her treehouse.  Her fingers would flip through page after page of flowery description and ridiculous storylines, pausing only for Twinkie breaks and to look up words like _undulating_ and _tumescent_ in the dictionary.  With her parents distracted by the antics of her older sister, Darcy had spent two summers reading her way through Harlequin’s mid-nineties bestseller list.  She would end up citing those books as her main source of information until the loss of her own virginity.

                The Incredibly. Disappointing. Loss of her virginity.

                In college, she’d had to be careful about when and how she got her fix.  There would have been no end to the shame if anyone found out that smart, politically minded, going-to-change-the-world-someday Darcy Lewis read this kind of garbage.  And not just read, but enjoyed. The books lived at home, at her parents’ house until she could be sure no one would stumble upon them and call her on her terrible taste.

                It wasn’t until after she graduated and moved out on her own that she’d discovered author Lana Nottingham and her _Rogue Allies_ series. A truly terrible work of art that spanned the entirety of the second world war over the course of twenty-three novels and told the story of Army nurse Eden Loughlin, who hopped from soldier to soldier on her quest to heal her own broken heart.

                Well, that’s how they’d started, anyway.

                Darcy was only on Book Nine ( _Rogue Allies: Spring 1943)_ and Eden finally seemed to have set her sights on one devilishly handsome and endearingly charming flyboy, Duncan Wheatley who had first appeared in Book Seven.

                Ms. Nottingham kept describing Duncan as _terrifically_ _sexy_ with bottle green eyes and raven black hair that just wouldn’t stay combed back no matter what he tried.  Rippling biceps and a roguish, crooked smile…

                Eden certainly couldn’t be blamed for shimmying out of her rationed nylons whenever Duncan was around.

                Steaming mug of reheated tea in hand, Darcy sat back on her couch and tucked her feet beneath her.  Mr. Fluffikins jumped down from his seat on the window sill and curled up against her, resting his chin on her hip.  She absently scratched his head and picked up her book once more.

                “Alright, Eden,” she said, reaching for her tea.  “As you were.”

                It wasn’t like she did this a lot, she reminded herself, ignoring the clock on the microwave.  Normally, her days off were as choreographed as her work days. But today, on her way back from the post office, she’d wandered past her favorite used bookstore and noticed they had a sale.  She managed to pick up volumes 9-12 for less than a dollar a piece and nary a side-eye from the salesgirl until she had popped them in a plastic bag.

                “You know they’ve got a whole boxed set of this one?” The cashier had asked, tucking her sleek black hair behind her heavily pierced ear.

                “Mmm?” Darcy had looked up from her phone, feigning ignorance. “Oh, yeah, I just…” she’d shrugged.  “I’ll let my mom know,” she said, deciding on her lie.  “She’s going away for Christmas and she wanted me to find her something to read on the plane.”

                She’d left before either of them could bring up the boxed set again.  Because Darcy _did_ know about it, of course.  Because she’d looked it up online more times than she cared to admit; clicking out of LanaNottingham.com before she could add the $249.99 to her Discover card.  She’d heard things about that boxed set.  According to the internet, the author had originally only published the final book of the series as a part of the set.  If you wanted to acquire it on your own, you had to either drop the cash or scour eBay for an individual copy. Unfortunately, Darcy hadn’t found out about that little hiccough until she was three books in and it was too late. 

                She’d only made her way through another few pages before her phone started buzzing with texts from her parents, asking for links to her Amazon wish list and if she knew what her sister might want for Christmas.  By the time she’d texted them back and sent them the corresponding links to Amazon and Pinterest, her tea had gone cold again.

                “Maybe we should call it a day, Fluffs,” she debated out loud, her lips turning downward into a pout. She scratched his tufted ears and set her book on the arm of the couch.  The cat purred for a moment before he hopped down from his spot beside her, wandered to the direct center of the living room, and promptly began gagging.

                Darcy’s eyes widened.  “Dude!” she exclaimed, leaping to her feet.  “Please don’t puke on the carpet—”

                But if Mr. Fluffikins cared about the carpet or the pleading of his human, he didn’t let it show as he proceeded to evacuate the contents of his stomach and projected a large, slimy ball of partially digested fur into the middle of the room.

                She wrinkled her nose.  “Come on, man…” she grumbled under her breath as she stepped carefully around his mess and made her way into the kitchen for some paper towels.

                She would forget this turn of events later on.  She wouldn’t even remember that it was Mr. Fluffikins’ fault that she was still on her hands and knees—scrubbing at the stained carpet—when her doorbell rang. 

 

****

 

                Steve Rogers had a secret too. It wasn’t nearly as dark and embarrassing as a secret romance novel addiction, but he still wasn’t proud of it.  If only because of how long he’d been attempting to keep it close to the chest.

                Actually, he considered as he waited patiently for Darcy to answer the door, he wasn’t even sure it _was_ much of a secret anymore. No one seemed to be acting like it was a secret.  No one, of course, except for the adorably oblivious research assistant who pulled open her door with a wad of wet paper towels in her hand.

                “Hi!” she said with an air of surprise that caused his heart to sink.

                “Hi,” he echoed, maintaining a smile.

                Darcy blinked her large blue eyes and frowned.  “Shit.”

                Steve laughed. “You know, back in the day, people used to ask their friends how they were before they called them names.”

                Her fair cheeks flushed quickly as she stepped backward and held open the door for him.  “It’s Thursday, isn’t it?”

                His grin hadn’t faded as he stepped inside. “All day, Darce.” Thursday, her only day off for the last two weeks.  The day they’d decided to spend together doing all their Christmas shopping. The day he might have been looking forward to for the last eight days since she’d suggested it.  “You completely forgot, didn’t you?”

                “I _completely_ forgot,” she assured him. “But I still want to go! I need to go, actually, I haven’t bought a single gift yet.”

                “We can go another day,” he said good naturedly, watching as she looked down at herself and seemed to catalogue her messiness. “It’s not the end of the world,” he called after her as she dashed back into the kitchen.  He heard the water running for a minute before she returned, without the paper towels and drying her hands on her ratty yoga pants.

                “No, no,” she shook her head.  “I’m a totally shit friend for forgetting this—”

                “You’re not,” he said. “I promise.”

                Her teeth dipped into her full bottom lip.  “Are you in a hurry?”

                “To go Christmas shopping by myself?” he laughed at the idea. “Absolutely not.”

                She smiled back, still looking apologetic.  “You can hang out for twenty minutes while I get my shit together or you can come back—your call.”

                He shrugged. “I’ll hang out.”

                Darcy’s eyes widened for a brief moment before she darted back toward the couch; she picked up a plush, red blanket off the floor and deposited it on the corner of the sofa.  “Cool,” she said fiddling with the edge so it hung over the armrest.  “Great. I’ll be quick.  And uh—” she frowned again and motioned toward the middle of the room.  “Watch where you’re stepping—I cleaned it up, but Mr. Fluffikins was just sick all over the place.”

                Steve grimaced.  “Is he okay?”

                She rolled her eyes and gave the cat a dismissive wave. “He’s fine, look at him,” she said, motioning to the cat winding a figure-eight around Steve’s ankles.  “Make yourself at home; I’ll be quick.”

                She was gone before he could say another word, leaving him with only Mr. Fluffikins for company.  He had to smile at the sound of the animal purring at his feet.  “I think you get fatter every time I see you, buddy,” he commented lightly, bending down to offer his hand for feline inspection.  His action was acknowledged with another purr and a light head-bonk before the cat turned and sashayed over to the couch to flop over and expose the soft white fur of his belly. 

“I can take a hint,” Steve muttered under his breath as he heard water running on the other side of the bathroom door.  He sat down on the couch next to Mr. Fluffikins and sank his fingers into the cat’s extra fluffy undercoat. He was allowed exactly three swipes along the cat’s stomach before his couch companion swatted at him and flipped back over to sink his incisors squarely into Steve’s hand. 

He hissed in pain and freed his hand as gingerly as he could.  In the brief tussle, Mr. Fluffikins flung himself to the corner of the couch in a spasm of fluff before he bolted toward the kitchen, dragging a throw pillow, Darcy’s red blanket, the remote control, and a thick paperback with him.

Steve sighed.  “You’re a gentleman and a scholar, Mr. Fluffikins,” he muttered and stood up to set everything back where it was. 

                He shouldn’t have looked at the book.  He knew that.  He should have just picked it up and put it back where he found it.  But it had fallen open and…well…the word ‘breasts’ had caught his attention.

                He was a man.  These things happened.

                Checking to ensure that the shower was still running, his eyes fell to the passage that had opened.

                _…she grabbed his hands and moved them up to experience her burgeoning, throbbing breasts._

                Throbbing breasts?  _Throbbing_?  Steve felt his brow crinkle.  He didn’t like to brag, but he’d seen a fair number of breasts in his day.  Spending two years on tour with twenty women who had no qualms about stripping in front of him had provided him with a fairly decent library of breasts for his memory to call up. 

From his recollection—and what he’d catalogued of more modern breasts—they didn’t throb. They bounced and remained stationary, jiggled and occasionally seemed to dance on their own accord…but throbbing breasts?  That was a new one.  Still, despite his confusion—or perhaps because of it—he read on.

                _With her own hands free to wander, Eden trailed her fingers over the hard smoothness and strength of his chest, her fingertips exploring the contours of bone and sinew.  As Duncan’s tongue plundered her mouth, she moved her hands once more over the corrugated leanness of his flat abdomen and then down further, coming to rest on the driving need of his sex._

                “Jesus Christ,” Steve murmured, turning the book over to read the title. Did Darcy really read this shit?  _Rogue Allies: Spring 1943_ showed a picture of a couple more or less having sex on the nose of a Wildcat F4F.  At least, it was probably _supposed_ to be a Wildcat, looking at the paint-job—but that cockpit was all wrong and the propellers weren’t even close to the right size…

He frowned and forcibly shook the thought from his head.  With a roll of his eyes at his own train of thought, he flipped further in the book.

                _“I know just what kind of man you are, Giovanni,” Eden purred, slipping her stockings down her thighs…_

                “If it’s 1943,” he scoffed indignantly, “she wouldn’t have had any stockings left.”  He read the sentence again and felt himself do a double take.  “Who the hell is Giovanni?”  Steve asked himself as he flipped back to where he’d started.  “What happened to Duncan?”  He studied the cover of the book.  “And if she’s an Army nurse, what’s she doing with an Italian?”  Down the hall, he heard the water stop rushing and immediately felt a wave of embarrassment. 

                Frantically, he put the book back the way he’d found it and covered it with the red blanket and throw pillow. He turned around and locked eyes with Mr. Fluffikins, who’d come to sit and study him curiously from the corner.  “This never happened,” he warned the cat.   

                Darcy returned a few minutes later in jeans and a heavy sweater, smelling like a fresh shower.  She smiled and grabbed her coat.  “Okay, we can go.”

                “Great,” Steve said, a little too enthusiastically and held the door for her on their way out.

                                                                                               

                                                                                                ****

 

                “Say cheese!” Darcy commanded, angling her phone so that Steve and the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center were artfully composed in her selfie.  Pleased with the result, she swiped her thumb across her screen a few times to select a filter before she tapped out a few tried and true hashtags and posted it successfully.  “Bring on the likes,” she said, looking up at him with a grin as she tucked her phone away.

                Steve rolled his eyes.  “Are you just using our friendship to up your social media…game, or whatever?”

                She laughed. “ _And_ to have someone around to carry my heavy parcels,” she said, motioning to the myriad bags he was holding in his left hand. “You’re incredibly useful this time of year.”

                He shook his head. “Don’t you just say the sweetest things…”

                Darcy laughed again. “I’m sorry,” she said, not sounding remotely so. “I’ll buy you a candy cane hot chocolate?”

                He couldn’t help but smile back. “Deal.”

                They managed to squeeze into a spot in the café that let them watch the ice skaters in the plaza.  Darcy pulled out her phone to examine her list.  “Okay, traditional stuff acquired for Mom and Dad—”

                Steve’s lips smiled around his cup.  “I still don’t believe you bought an NWA boxed set of vinyl for your father…”

                She looked up. “The man loves old school gangster rap,” she repeated what she’d asserted in the record shop. “It’s my favorite thing about him and I’ll encourage this love every chance that I get.”

                He laughed again. “If you say so.”

                She returned her gaze to her phone. “Scarf and gloves for Mom, fancy soaps for Lizzie,” she pointed to each of the bags Steve had tucked under their small table. “Slippers for Jane, Erik, _and_ Thor…” she looked up.  “Only one person left on my list,” she said with a smile.  “How about you?”

                Steve had to dig into the pocket of his leather jacket to find his notebook and the Christmas list kept there.  Darcy watched as he withdrew a golf pencil and began drawing lines through names.  “Got the team done, except for Natasha—”

                Darcy raised her eyebrows.  “What’re you getting her?” she asked with a smile. “Knives?”

                He looked up, mildly concerned.  “Do you think I should get her something different?”

                She shook her head.  “No, she could probably use more knives.”

                Her comment drew his face together in thought.  “I saw this place a few blocks over that had hira shuriken in the window…”

                Her eyes lit up. “Those throwing star things? Oh my God, yes. Get those.”

                He chuckled and made a note. “Plus, it’s right by that bookstore you like,” he reminded. “So maybe I’ll get an idea of what you actually want for Christmas.”

                Darcy sighed and felt her cheeks turn pink at the idea of Steve remembering her favorite bookstore. “I told you what I want for Christmas,” she reminded him before taking a sip of her hot chocolate.  The sweetness and mint swirled around her tongue and warmed her all the way down to her belly.

                “Okay,” he relented, “but in case Mariah Carey _isn’t_ available to come to your apartment on Christmas Eve and sing what you refer to as ‘the greatest Christmas song of all time’—”

                “It _is_ the greatest Christmas song of all time, Steve! I’m not going to fight about this—there’s scientific evidence backing me up on this one.”

                “Jane agreeing with your taste in music is not scientific evidence,” he reminded her wearily.

                “It is so!  It’s evidence confirmed by a scientist!”

                “So just in case I can’t deliver on your first wish,” he continued around another laugh. “What else do you want for Christmas?”

                Darcy bit her lip.  Obviously, there were plenty of things she wanted.  A boxed set of trashy novels, a mattress that didn’t hurt her back, maybe a tall, blonde super soldier waiting for her under the mistletoe…

                Her list was long and diverse and full of nothing she could share with Steve right now.  She shrugged. “I don’t know—you’re a tough person to exchange gifts with.”

                He looked hurt. “Why would you say that?”

                She laughed.  “Because you’re really good at it!” she exclaimed.  “Remember last year? When I told you I was tired of being cold so I wanted a nice pair of gloves and cute hat that covered my ears?”

                He didn’t look convinced of her argument.  “Yeah…”

                “And you not only picked out the cutest of both options, but you had Tony design some kind of permanent warming thing so they’re _always_ warm and toasty.”  She gave the hat in question a loving tug down over her ears again. 

                He shrugged, a cross between innocent and smug. “You said you wanted the warmest pair of gloves in the city.”

                “And then I got them,” she reminded, holding up the fingerless wonders that doubled as mittens with the flip of a heated flap.  “I’m worried you might _actually_ have Mariah Carey booked to come sing to me next week.”

                He shook his head. “I am assuring you, I did not even attempt it.”

                “Not to mention,” she continued, pointing a finger in his direction, “that _you_ are impossible to shop for because you don’t want anything and you never ask for anything.”

                “Because I like all the things you give me,” he returned with a shrug. “I liked the scarf you knit for me, obviously,” he added, motioning to the dark blue wool wrapped around his neck. She smiled as he continued. “And the sketchbook you gave me for my birthday—I use that every day.  Not to mention all the movies and books you’ve given me over the last two years—you’ve never picked something I haven’t enjoyed.”

                “Not true.”

                He sighed. “No one in the world liked _The Garbage Pail Kids_ , Darcy,” he reminded her seriously.  “No one.  Not even you.”

                “I was hoping I’d forgotten some of its inherent charms.”

                “You didn’t,” he assured her.  “And I even forgave you for making me sit through that one.”

                Darcy rolled her eyes. “You’re still hard to buy for!”

                “I literally just told you could give me anything on the planet and I’m sure I’d like it and somehow I’m still hard to buy for?” he asked, an edge of affectionate exasperation in his voice.

                “Well now I’m paralyzed by choice!” she argued back. 

                He looked at her for a good, long moment before the corners of his mouth turned up in a grin she could tell he’d been fighting.  “You know, Darcy, in all the years of my unintentionally very long life…”

                She raised her eyebrows expectantly.  “Yes?”

                “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”

It was her turn to smile as she drained the last of her hot chocolate and got to her feet.  “That’s what I’m counting on, big guy.”  She gave his shoulder a tap and leaned over him to throw out her cup.  “Come on, let’s go get Natasha some ninja stars.”

                He was still grinning when he followed her back out into the snowy afternoon.

 

                                                                                ***

 

                It was much later by the time she got home.  They’d bought Natasha her stars, played on the big piano at F.A.O Schwartz, eaten Greek food off a truck and finished the evening with another peppermint hot chocolate.  Darcy had been returned to her apartment full, happy, and with bags full of presents to wrap.

                Not that she was wrapping any of them.

                Darcy had come home, deposited her purchases in the armchair of the living room, fed Mr. Fluffikins, and run herself a hot bubble bath.  If she kept her elbows on the edge of the tub, she had just enough space between her book and the bubbles to keep the pages turning without compromising her relaxation.  Things were finally heating up in _Spring 1943_ and the quickened pace had Darcy anxiously flipping through the pages, biting her lip with anticipation and itching to get to the next book as soon as possible.

                Until her the sound of her ringtone cracked her solitude.  She set her book down on the tile and reached for her phone with a heavy sigh.  She paused when she saw the name and photo on the screen, the corner of her lips turning upward with a confused smile as she pressed the phone to her ear.  “What’s up, Steve?”

                “I don’t think Eden is a very reliable narrator.”

                Darcy blinked and pulled the phone away to double check that she’d read the caller ID correctly.  “I beg your pardon?”

                “And I don’t know where Duncan or Giovanni come into play,” he continued, sounding dead serious.  “But I really think she’d be better off with this Johnny guy.”

                She felt her jaw unhinge for a moment before she took a steady, measured inhale through her nose.  “Steven Grant Rogers,” she began gravely, “did you read my book?”

                He had the decency to sound contrite.  “I didn’t mean to, I swear.”

                “Mmhmm.”

                “I didn’t! Mr. Fluffikins knocked it over and I went to pick it up and I just…” he cleared his throat. “I caught a few paragraphs, that’s all.”

                “And yet you know about Giovanni.”

                “Well I—I…might have…flipped a few pages. While I was waiting for you.”

                “Goddamnit, Steve!”

                “It’s nothing to be ashamed of—”

                “Yes, it is!” she assured him, covering her eyes with a soapy hand. “That’s why I hide them!  Out of shame!” She stopped and dropped her hand, sitting up straighter in the tub.  “Wait a minute.”

                “What?”

                “How do you know about Johnny?”

                “Hmm?”

                Her eyes narrowed. “Johnny only appears in the—” she cut herself off with a gasp. “What did you do?”

                There was a long, heavy silence between them before Steve cleared he throat again. “I bought the first one.”

                “Why.”

                “I was curious.”

                “Oh man.”

                “I take your recommendations seriously,” he said innocently.

                She took another deep, steadying inhale and tried to compose herself. “If you _ever_ tell _anyone_ about this—”

                “And admit that I’m reading this shit too?” he laughed. “Your secret is safe with me, Darce.  But you have to tell me something.”

                “No, I don’t,” she insisted. “I don’t have to tell you anything!”

                “Just—” he sighed. “I gotta know, what’s wrong with Johnny? Why doesn’t she stay with him?”

                Darcy rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

                “Come on,” he whined. “You’re the person I talk to about books.”

                She couldn’t help her smile as she shook her head. “If I tell you, it ruins the story.”

                He scoffed. “What story?”

                She sighed again. “Look, Johnny is fine but he’s not the guy.”

                “So who _is_ the guy?”

                “It’s obviously Duncan,” she stated with immense confidence. “And you don’t meet Duncan until Book Seven, so I don’t expect you to understand.”

                “But they seem really good together,” he said, sounding disappointed.

                She pressed her lips together and willed herself not to melt a tiny bit. “I can’t tell you what happens with Johnny,” she said firmly. “And I’m not going to, so don’t beg. But trust me, once you meet Duncan, you’re going to love him.”

                Steve scoffed again. “Doubtful.”

                “You are only one book in!  You can’t be that attached to any of these characters!”

                “Well I’m not that attached to Eden, I’ll tell you that much.”

                She rolled her eyes. “Eden will grow on you; she’s a little saccharine at the beginning, but she turns into a much better heroine by Book Three.  But you have to give Duncan a chance when you meet him.”

                “He can’t be that great.”

                “No, he is.  I promise!” she exclaimed. “I’m actually ruining half the joy of Duncan which is that he’s so unexpectedly loveable. The first few chapters where they start working together, he’s _such_ a stuffed shirt, I almost couldn’t stand it.”

                “Yeah,” Steve sounded unconvinced. “Sounds great.”

                “But then you get to know him and he’s really funny and sweet and self-deprecating…seriously, he’s wonderful.”

                “Anybody can be those things,” Steve argued stubbornly.

                “Sure,” she agreed. “But it’s not just what he’s _like_ that makes him loveable.  It’s how he treats Eden.” Darcy bit her lip, dangerously close to gushing. “He treats her like she’s…” she shrugged. “Y’know, special.  She…” she paused and scrunched her face in embarrassment, wondering if he was reading anything into this. “She feels better when she’s around him.  Y’know?”

                There was another pause from Steve’s end of the line.  She heard him smile again before he spoke. “Okay,” he said finally.  “I’ll give it a chance. But I've already got a list of historical inaccuracies a mile long."

                She cackled. "And I assure you, it's only going to get worse. C'mon, Steve, nobody reads these books for the research." She snorted at the thought. "Come to think of it, no one reads them for the plot either. I'm sure  _I_ could write a better romance than Ms. Notingham."

                "Well if you ever decide to write something set in the '40s, let me know."

                She laughed again. "Hey, that's an idea.  If this avenging stuff doesn't pan out, come find me and we'll become an unstoppable force in the world of historically accurate erotica."

                "Don't tempt me with a retirement option, Lewis."

                Darcy smiled and sank back down into her bubbles. “You know, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it feels really good to talk to you about this shit.”

                His laugh was deep and genuine. “How long have you been hiding this…literary interest?”

                “My whole life!  I feel like a heroin addict at her first NA meeting.”

                He laughed again and Darcy felt a warmth in her belly that had nothing to do with her bath water.  “Darcy, if you really want to get me a Christmas gift…”

                “Oh God, do you want the boxed set?”

                “No,” he chuckled. “No, just…just more of this, okay?  That’s what I want.”

                Darcy knew her cheeks flushed a pink to match her bubbles as she bit her lip again.  “I can definitely do that.”

 

***

 

                It should have come as no surprise that on Christmas Eve, Darcy opened her door to find a beautifully wrapped gift. Beneath the silver paper was a box of twenty-three glossy, fresh-smelling _Rogue Allies_ novels and a note that read

_Will you promise to share?_

_Merry Christmas_

_-S_

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, to all! And to all, a good fic!


End file.
